


What Family Does

by Kestrealbird



Series: DC Verse [6]
Category: DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Based on my own headcanons, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, Uncle Barry, found family yeet, game nights, halbarry for one line
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 19:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19092049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrealbird/pseuds/Kestrealbird
Summary: Narrowing his eyes to slits, Barry glances at the clock on the wall, then back at Jason. “Isn’t it past your fucking bedtime?”"Yeah. Also, swear jar." Bruce is very particular about that jar. Last time Clark was here he managed to accidentally fill up a third of it. Wordlessly, Barry drops in a couple of cents. Swinging his legs back and forth, Jason scrunches his nose, pencil tapping the table. "Can I ask you something?""You just did.""...Bruce was right when he called you a smartass," Jason mutters under his breath.





	What Family Does

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for weeks and now it's finally finished so please,,,,just take it,,,

Master Bruce is a light sleeper - has been ever since his parents’ murder - and Alfred has come to expect seeing him walking the halls, looking at old photographs or sitting in front of the fireplace, looking for all the world like the young child he still is (he can still see it, in Bruce’s eyes, the desperation of a young boy who wants his family back and is trying to find his place in the world again). What Alfred _hasn’t_ come to expect, is walking into his kitchen and seeing the Flash devour two small baskets of fruit as quietly and politely as he can manage given his speed. It’s...somewhat mesmerising really.

There’s no mess, for a start, and even though Alfred can _see_ the blur of his movements, Flash still manages to make it look _eloquent_.

He’s aware that the man requires extra sustenance, as his powers impact more than how fast his legs can run, because Alfred has had to hear Master Clark complain about his wallet three times in the past few months. Nothing really prepared him for the Flash breaking into his kitchen, however, though he feels a tug in his gut when he notices the bags under the Flash’s eyes, and the distinct lack of any _real_ food being touched.

The fridge door remains closed, and there’s no sign that the microwave or oven have been used. It’s a familiar scene; one that reminds him of Bruce, all the times he sits in his father’s chair, curled up because the nightmares keep him restless and haunted, eating only the bare minimum if he can get away with it.

The exhaustion in Flash’s eyes really nails it home, he thinks, the look of a man whose been going at 100% for too long, and is finally having all his sleepless nights catch up to him.

Evidently, he’s eating enough to tide him over so he can zip back to his own city without passing out where he stands. Alfred can’t help but wonder if all heroes are this stubborn with their own health, or if it's something that’s unique to the ones who formed the Justice League.

He clears his throat to announce his presence, candle held in such a way it illuminates his visage, and the Flash lets out a very impressive _scream._

\---

Of all the things Bruce thought he’d see, bolting down the halls after he heard a scream echo from his left, it was _not_ a decidedly _unmasked_ Flash, helmet dangling off his hip on a chain, clutching at the island in the middle of Alfred’s kitchen - _his_ kitchen, he has to correct himself - and Alfred standing just to the side of the doorway, eyebrow cocked and face pulled into something stern and worrying.

“Oh my god,” Flash whispers, horrified, “are you _all_ this quiet or am I just so tired that I’ve started passing out where I stand?”

Bruce, whose just got in from patrol and is still very much disguised, stands to his full height, which isn’t as tall as Clark’s but is definitely taller than Flash’s, and frowns. “How,” he says slowly, “did you get in here?”

“I...ran?”

Which. Yeah. He probably should’ve guessed that. “I mean -” he stops gritting his teeth at the look Alfred gives him, glares right back instead - “how did you get past all of the sensors?”

There’s an impressive amount of them, if he does say so himself. Clark barely stepped foot into his garden the other day before one of them went off.

Flash has the decency to look awkward and sheepish, shuffling from foot to foot like a child caught doing something bad. “I...vibrated through the wall. And bypassed everything.”

He...what.

Bruce blinks. “You can do that?”

“Yes?” Flash looks between him and Alfred, brows scrunched in concentration, as though he’s trying to puzzle something out, and Bruce can't help but notice how bright his eyes are. He’s never seen them before, because Flash has never taken off his helmet until now, but they’re...blue. A very, _very_ , bright shade of blue. _Ironic,_ he muses, _that an introvert would have such piercing eyes._

Despite the absolute absurdity before him, Bruce finds himself curious, wondering about the exact limits behind Flash’s powers. It’s not that he’s never thought about them before, of course, it’s just that he’s always had more important things to worry about. Like charity events and Catwoman’s _flexible_ morals.

And then Flash stands up, perhaps too quickly, and Bruce can see the exact _second_ where he stumbles and nearly blacks out, _barely_ catching himself on the counter before he makes contact with the floor.

He’s at Flash’s side in the next instant, instincts propelling him forward to support the man - he’s a blonde? - before he passes out completely. “‘M fine,” Flash tries to say, but he’s swaying on his feet, leaning subconsciously onto Bruce for support, stubbornly attempting to stand upright even as his knees threaten to buckle underneath him.

That would explain the look Alfred had been giving him. He’s had it directed at himself so many times that he should have recognized something was wrong the moment he caught sight of it. Bruce files that away for later, mentally chastising himself for not paying more attention to Alfred’s cues.

Alfred has a chair pulled up already, and they both guide Flash to sit down, concerned as he blinks slowly at the floor. “Metabolism,” he mumbles by way of explanation. “Needed to eat something or -” he gestures - “this would happen.” Then, as an afterthought, “sorry. Didn’t mean to stay this long.”

“Nonsense.” Alfred tuts, turns away to start rummaging in the freezers without Bruce’s input. He’d be offended if he hadn’t been practically _raised_ by the man. “Your health is important, though I do wonder how you found yourself in Gotham of all places.”

Flash smiles, shrugging. “It’s a long story.”

Bruce can bet as much. People don't just _find_ themselves in Gotham. You’re either born in this pit of hell or you end up kidnapped. Or an alien invasion happens and you’re a hero with too big of a conscience to stay in your own lane, _Clark_ . (In Clark’s defense, he wasn’t the _only_ one to show up, but _still_.)

He’ll find out later, he’s sure, when the gossip about the Flash being seen hits the streets, though it might take him a while to put together the facts with all the rumors that are sure to start flying. Gotham isn’t known as “the city of whispering streets” for nothing, irritating as it might be.

Flash is looking at him - _really_ looking at him - and Bruce remembers he’s standing here as Batman instead of Bruce Wayne. The concentrated look from earlier clicks into place. Flash was _analyzing_ him; putting together all the facts and drawing his own conclusions from them.

So that’s what it feels like to be on the receiving end. It sends tension through his shoulders, an uneasiness settling in the pit of his stomach like lead.

But Flash doesn’t have x-ray vision (Clark _cheated_ ), and the public tend to be incredibly stupid (glasses? Really? That’s all it takes?), so he calms his panicking heart because there’s no way that Flash could possibly -

“Bruce Wayne, huh? Gotta say it’s not the worst double-life to lead.”

-well. Nevermind then.

Irritated, Bruce moves the cowl off his face, eyes narrowed dangerously at the speedster in front of him. Flash, impossibly, smiles even brighter at him, offering a hand. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m a CSI. Names Barry Allen.” It doesn’t make him feel any better, but he shakes Barry’s hand regardless.  

This man is...Bruce doesn’t even know where to begin describing him. Reckless would be a good start, but then, from what he can gather, Barry and Hal Jordan are friends, so that seems to come with the territory.

Both of them are monumentally _terrible_ at keeping a secret identity apparently. _Yes_ , he thinks, resisting the urge to screw up his nose at the thought of Hal Jordan, _that definitely tracks._

“How long have you known?”

Barry shrugs, again, wincing when he sways a little too far to the side. “I’ve had my suspicions from the start. You’d need a lot of money to do the things you do, with the gadgets and the cars, and looking into Bruce Wayne’s vacations in relation to Batman’s injuries...well. Things lined up a lot, is all I’m saying.”

He’s going to have to change that. Maybe have “Bruce Wayne” go on more frequent vacations while Batman sticks around Gotham. Or just stubbornly fight his way through his injuries and risk an Alfred Lecture. Hm. Decisions.

“You might as well sit down, Master Bruce. I’ll be cooking for both of you tonight.” Alfred makes a point of pulling up another chair, clear that there’ll be no arguments. He _knows_ that Bruce is too hospitable to turn down food in front of guests, and he’s using that to his advantage. Bruce makes a show of taking off his cape, draping it over his chair and scowling all the while. Alfred pays no attention to his theatrics, more than used to them by now.

Barry closes his eyes, sinking into his chair, breathing deeply, and it’s only now that Bruce is noticing the slight rattle it causes. The thick leather jacket he wears is unzipped, the black polo neck underneath on full display. He’d always wondered how Flash had come up with the idea of wearing motorcycle gear, so learning that Barry is a CSI - has probably dealt with his fair share of bike related incidents - puts a lot more perspective into it.

They sit in a limbo of silence while the food cooks - not awkward but not quite comfortable either. Alfred puts a glass of champagne in front of him, and a glass of lemonade beside Barry, who offers a quiet thanks, sounding tired and exhausted.

The food is delicious as always, and he notes that Alfred has made enough for five people instead of three. He doesn’t eat at the table much, normally gets his fill when Bruce is on patrol or sleeping in his quarters. But they have an uninvited guest, so it only seems polite to join them.

Barry favours his left side as he eats, tensing whenever he stretches his right too far. It’s hard to tell what kind of injury he has, given the faster healing rate, but Bruce suspects it was a broken rib, mostly likely just a very painful bruise by now. Barry has his sympathy; rib injuries are some of the worst.

It also brings more questions than answers.

Stealing some food from a billionaire really is the best course of action Barry could’ve taken, all things considered, even if the reveal of his identity will leave a sour taste in Bruce’s mouth for days. Possibly weeks.

Bruce tries not to think about it - about Barry swaying on his feet, nearly blacking out if not for stubbornness because his metabolism is literally the worst side-effect of any superpower so far - and chooses to drink more champagne instead. Alfred gives him a knowing, calculated look, even as he politely informs Barry that he really doesn't need to hold back on their account, he can dig in as much as he likes.

It's stupid for Bruce to be this concerned about someone when he hasn't even known them a year (and children don't count because they’re _children_ and Bruce is _allowed_ his weaknesses). Clark will have a field-trip with this later.

He’s interacted with Barry before, of course, because they made the Justice League a couple of months ago - three, to be exact - and he sort of hates how easy it is for Barry to get along with people. Because Bruce _wants_ to be annoyed with him, for a lot of reasons, but watching him eat at his kitchen table, thinking about the negative effect Barry’s powers have on his own body, is making that a harder task than it needs to be.

Curse his sensibilities and bleeding heart.

Barry, predictably, eats all three meals that Alfred prepared for him. He slumps over the table afterwards, content and _whining_ about how _wonderful_ Alfred’s cooking is and how he’s going to feel _robbed_ when he goes home to take-outs and Hal’s leftovers (which are still enough to fill up a normal person and Bruce suspects it might be on purpose).

Bruce isn't sure why he does it - impulse, maybe, or a protective instinct he has yet to recognize - but he can't get the thought of Barry collapsing from hunger out of his head, so he says, “if you ever find yourself in Gotham again...our kitchen is always open.” Barry looks at him, wide-eyed, and Bruce adds, “be more careful with your identity. It’s there for a reason.”

Barry softens considerably, smile warm on his face. He helps Alfred clean up - it only takes him twenty seconds - and makes to grab his helmet. Bruce stops him with a raised hand. “Stay here for the night,” he tells him, tone brockering no argument. “You can go back in the morning. _After_ -” Bruce continues sternly - “your injury is healed over.”

Barry opens his mouth, closes it again, conflicted. Bruce crosses his arms over his chest, imposing and, accepting that he won't be winning this debate anytime soon, Barry relents, rolling his eyes skywards.

“Alright then.”

Alfred gives him a room on the first floor, simple and homey, with purple sheets and a bookcase by the window. Barry gives them an awkward, “thanks,” and falls asleep the moment he lays face-first on the pillow.

Bruce arranges him into a more comfortable position, divesting him of his jacket and boots, huffing. Alfred’s lips quirk upwards when they leave.

“Not a word.”

“Of course not, Sir. I wouldn’t dream of ruining your perfect stoicism.”

***

There's a man on Bruce's - their? - kitchen counter, blonde hair and bright blue eyes, scarfing down Alfred's cooking like it's his first meal in days or something. Dick blinks, pillow clutched tightly to his chest, wondering if he should be worried or not. Bruce won't be happy with his indecision later. Not _angry_ of course just. Unhappy about it.

Alfred doesn't look too concerned though, so either this man is a friend of some sort or a _really_ good villain. Dick's not sure that Bruce even _has_ any friends, so he's leaning a bit more towards the latter.

"Uh," he says, showing off his excellent mouth skills. He blames the fact that it’s only 7 in the morning.

The man's head swivels in his direction, blue eyes piercing right through him, a spoonful of pudding half-raised to his lips. "Sup." He regards Dick for less than a second (it feels like an eternity) turning back to Alfred with a sheepish sort of smile. "I really am sorry about this," he's saying, and Dick is almost worried that this is turning into a hostage situation before the man speaks again, apologetic and awkward. "But you always have this place stocked for Bats and now you have the kid here so I figured...it'd be easier? Maybe?"

Alfred smiles, in the same way he smiles when Dick asks if he's allowed to use the TV to watch cartoons, and gestures for Dick to enter the kitchen, brandishing a bowl of porridge in one hand for him. Always prepared, their Alfred. "I assure you, Master Allen, it's quite alright. At least I know none of my efforts will be wasted."

Dick has never been a big fan of porridge, but Alfred and Bruce insist that it's a "healthier" breakfast than sugary cereals. His face must give away as much because the man - Allen? - grins in his direction.

"You want some pudding?"

Dick brightens considerably. "Yes," he says at the same time that Alfred cuts in with a stern, "no."

Allen pouts. "Come on Alfred let the kid have something sweet. God knows _someone_ in this place could use it."

Dick decides, very quickly for a child his age, that he likes Allen a whole lot more than Alfred this morning.

“He’s a growing boy - “

“ - which is why he needs _real food_ -”

“ - porridge _is_ real food -”

“ - a little bit of sugar won't hurt him!”

Alfred patiently clasps his hands behind his back, eyes staring straight at Allen. “Just because your metabolism can survive eating a triple chocolate pudding at eight in the morning, doesn’t mean Master Richard’s can.”

Dick very much wants to argue with that statement - he’s _perfectly_ capable of eating super sweet things without getting sick, that was _one time_ (“one time too many,” Bruce would say) - but smartly decides to continue eating his porridge, fascinated at the back and forth going on in front of him.

Bruce is the only one he's ever seen bicker with Alfred before. He didn't know other people were allowed to do it, too. It always felt like some sort of private rite of passage or something. Like one day he’d be given a special certificate that said “congratulations, you can now bicker with the butler.”

Maybe there _is_ a certificate like that, and Allen just happens to have one. Superman certainly doesn’t.

Awake at last, Dick takes in the way Allen looks. He stands out a lot, Dick notes mildly. Bright red leather a stark contrast to the muted silvers and deep blues of the kitchen, blonde hair looking almost out of place in such a broody mansion.

The only people with brighter hair tones that Dick interacts with now tend to be villains, and the only other blonde he's ever met is Harley Quinn. With the logical reasoning that only a child can produce, Dick concludes that they _have_ to be related. Probably siblings. They even have the same blue eyes.

It must be difficult having a sister whose turned to a life of crime. Maybe that’s why Allen’s here. To try and help his sister get back to a normal life and leave Joker forever. It must be a lot of pressure, he thinks, feeling sorry for Allen’s situation.

He’ll have to scold Harley for this next time he sees her; breaking her brother’s heart like that. For shame on her.

"Yes but this is _pudding_ ," Allen argues. "It won't kill him, Alfred."

Allen hops off the counter at last, turning to put his bowl in the sink and Dick gapes at the familiar symbol on the back of Allen’s jacket, spoon clattering where he drops it on the table. His attention completely zooms in on this new piece of information as it filters through his brain, and he can't help but blurt out, “Oh My Gosh you’re the Flash!”

Allen blinks down at where Dick has suddenly scrambled to stand next to him, embarrassed at being recognized. Being famous is still taking a lot of getting used to, and he doubts it’ll ever get any easier. “Yeah,” he says, smiling, shuffling his feet as Dick beams up at him. “And you’re...Robin, right?”

Dick gasps loudly, whispering, awed, “you know who I am.”

“Well. Yes. Bruce talks about you a lot.”

“He talks about me!?”

Allen looks helplessly at Alfred, silently begging for some kind of support. Alfred offers none. He raises a single, thin brow and walks briskly out of the kitchen, making sure his shoes click loudly as he goes. “Yes,” Allen says slowly, feeling betrayed. “Like, all the time really? Mostly praises about how good you’re doing.”

It’s officially the best day of Dick’s life. He meets _the_ Flash in his _kitchen_ and then learns that _Bruce Wayne_ talks about him to other _big name_ heroes? Someone pinch him to prove this isn’t a dream.

It better not be, because The Flash is holding out a very sugary chocolate bar for him, finger raised to his lips for secrecy. Just like Bruce does when they’re on patrol. If there’s one thing Dick loves, it’s keeping secrets. Giggling, he raises a finger to his own lips, hiding the chocolate bar in his pocket.

What Alfred doesn’t know can't hurt him.

Superman might be his favourite hero ever (a fact that Bruce seems personally affronted by) but the Flash is also _really cool_ , and Dick has _questions_.

“Flash -”

“ - Barry is fine -”

“ - I have so many questions like, is it true you need to eat twice the amount we do because of your metabolism? How fast can you run? Are you faster than Superman? Do you have a crush on any of the other heroes? Where did you get your hero name from? Is it true you can vibrate through _concrete_? And did you really subdue an alien invader by choking them out with your jacket? Is Harley Quinn your sister? Am I asking too many questions, can you still hear me?”

Dick rattles them all off as fast as he can, mouth moving at what he feels is a mile a minute, excited to meet one of the Big Seven. He did the same when he met Superman, and he only felt a little bit embarrassed by how lost his ramblings made Superman look. Barry doesn’t seem to have this problem, huffing quietly once Dick is finished.

“Yes, but sometimes it’s more depending on how much energy I’ve expended. Faster than light. Yes, I’m faster than Superman but he doesn’t know that yet. I refuse to answer that question - nice try though. That one’s personal. Yes, I can vibrate through concrete and no I’m not showing you how - don’t look at me like that you’re not slick. Jaysus what kind of stories is Bruce telling you? But yes I did. Somehow.”

He pauses here, throwing a face. “She’s - _no,_ why would you even - actually don’t tell me just. She’s not. At _all_ related to me. No you aren’t asking too many and _yes_ I can still hear you. I think faster than you speak on the daily.”

Barry lets out a heavy breath, but he still looks fondly down at Dick, whose started rocking on his heels, beaming from ear to ear.

“You are _so_ freaking cool,” Dick tells him, sincere and honest.

Barry coughs into his fist, embarrassed. “I should have you meet Wally. He thinks Bruce is cool. Maybe you could, I dunno, swap stories or something.” He says it mostly as a joke, but then Dick’s mouth drops wide open, and he gasps like Barry has just opened a whole new world for him and, really, what is Barry supposed to do now? Just leave him here with a stuffy bat and no kids to play with?

He thinks about the pros and cons for all of ten seconds before he leans down and gestures for Dick to get on his back. The kid is more than happy to do so, arms practically flying around Barry’s neck like a vice. “If Bruce asks, tell him we both got kidnapped.”

“Okay!”

Well. At least Wally will get a new friend out of all this. It’s almost worth all the colourful death threats Bruce sends him later.

***

“And you’re sure you don't want to come with me tonight?” Bruce asks for the millionth time, mouth twisted with worry.

“I’m sure,” Jason insists, helping Alfred push him out the door. “I have homework to do and Alfred’s here with me.”

Bruce falters in the doorway, fiddling with his gloves. He casts a look in Alfred’s direction, pleading. Alfred doesn’t give a single inch. “Master Jason is perfectly safe here. You know that better than anyone.”

“Nightwings going to accuse you of favouritism if you don’t leave soon.” That, more than anything, seems to get Bruce moving. He _hates_ it when people think he favours one of his boys over the other, and Jason knows he doesn’t mean to dither but he’s so used to Dick jumping at the chance to patrol with him that he’s still getting used to Jason favouring his studies, and actually _wanting_ to finish school.

“If anything happens -”

“ - then we will be sure to call you _promptly_.” Alfred gives one final shove, none too gently in Bruce’s back, and, with a final defeated sigh, Bruce pulls his cowl over his face and leaves, closing the door behind him. For once he didn't use the window. Or the Batcave. “Now,” Alfred says, clapping his hands together. “I believe you had homework to do?”

Jason sighs. “Yeah. Lots of it.”

Too much, in fact, but he’s catching up on weeks of missed school work because he’s been doing night patrols as Robin, and he’s still kinda getting the hang of living a double-life. Bruce and Dick make it look so _easy._

“Do you want me to move your books into the kitchen?”

“Nah,” Jason replies. “I got it.”

He likes to do his homework in the kitchen for a few reasons; 1. Snacks are always within reach. 2. He can hear when someone enters the mansion. 3. It has a great view of the pond in the garden, and Jason likes to look at it when he’s thinking over the problems in his pages.

Science takes him the better part of two hours, history another three and French has never been his strong suit. Jason’s a natural with Russian and Dutch, but French and Spanish elude him, somehow. He’s a little bit jealous that Dick finds languages super easy to pick up. Okay, he’s _seething_ with it, but that’s _natural_. It’s the rivalry in them.

He’s halfway through his math when he hears the front door open, and the sound of very fast movement repeatedly going up and down the stairs. Definitely not Bruce then.

Curiously, he takes a peek through the door, just in case, and sees a red blur whizz right past him, three times in quick succession.

 _Oh,_ he thinks, _that must be Barry._

Dick had told him all about his Uncle Barry before, specifically about how sometimes he’d rush through the manor for something or other and then be gone within a few minutes, much to Bruce’s chagrin.

“He has a secret identity for a _reason_ ,” Bruce had said, exasperated.

“Not like he cares to _keep_ it that way,” Dick had argued.

There’d been a whole lecture about it that the two of them had mocked behind Bruce’s back.

Jason thinks that Barry and Clark are the reason Bruce is so strict with the double-life thing. Dick has an ongoing bet with his friends that Jason isn’t allowed to be apart of. He’s determined to win it, anyways.

He’s just getting back to his homework when Barry steps into the kitchen, tutting his teeth. “Damn. Guess he’s not here after all.”

“If you’re looking for Bruce he went out.”

“Yeah thanks - “ Barry pauses, head tilted to the side, confused.

Right. He was off-world for a year with Lantern, and he’s only been back for a few months. “I’m Jason. New Robin.”

“Oh! Right, yeah, I heard. Wow it’s weird how much can happen in a year.”

“Why are you looking for Bruce?”

“Hm? Oh. Needed his opinion on a case I’m working on.” Barry shrugs in a grand way that Jason translates to meaning, “what can ya do?”, and sighs. “So what’s Dick up to these days?”

Jason smiles. “He goes by Nightwing now.”

“ _Nightwing_?”

“Yeah. Sounds dorky.”

Barry shakes his head in disbelief. “That’s because it is. ‘Nightwing’, honestly.”

“He also has a girlfriend,” Jason cheerfully adds. “Starfire. She’s cool.”

“I know she is,” Barry laughs. “We’ve met before. Wow they finally got together huh? Check that off the bucket list, I guess.”

Jason wonders what else is on that bucket list, for it to include Dick and Kory getting together, but a quick dive into those possibilities has him backpedalling as fast as he’s capable, because the thought of Bruce being involved with anyone _like that_ is a little too much for him to think about.

Narrowing his eyes to slits, Barry glances at the clock on the wall, then back at Jason. “Isn’t it past your fucking bedtime?”

"Yeah. Also, swear jar." Bruce is very particular about that jar. Last time Clark was here he managed to accidentally fill up a third of it. Wordlessly, Barry drops in a couple of cents. Swinging his legs back and forth, Jason scrunches his nose, pencil tapping the table. "Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

"...Bruce was right when he called you a smartass," Jason mutters under his breath.

"He called me what now?"

"Nothing."

Barry hums, unconvinced. Oh well. Not his problem to deal with. “So, what’s your question?”

Looking over his pencil with all the seriousness he can muster, Jason asks, “is Green Lantern an idiot?”

“Which one?”

“Jordan,” Jason huff's, because it should be _obvious._

Barry takes a seat across from him, elbows resting on the table, fingers locked together. “That depends,” he says, amused. “Are we talking general smarts or something more specific?”

Snorting, Jason finishes his current math problem. “When he goads Bruce.”

“Yes.”

“Not even gonna deny it?”

“Nope. They’re both idiots in that regard.”

Jason blinks. He’s never heard anyone call Bruce an idiot before. At least, not in a tone that implies they’ve said it to Bruce’s _face._ “How so?”

“If it wasn’t for the rest of us, I’m pretty sure they’d fight each other on sight,” Barry muses. “They’re very similar, and that pisses them both off so they argue constantly and drive each other up the wall.” He shrugs. “They can get along if they really have to, though.”

Jason scrunches his nose. “I doubt that.”

Barry lets out a laugh, low and smooth. “Do you?”

“Yes. I think they’d rather kill each other.”

“Well,” Barry says, “you’re not wrong. _But_ \- “ he leans back in his chair, lifting the front legs off the floor - “they’ve been heroes long enough to know when to put that behind them, and focus on the task at hand.”

“Oh.”

He can _sort of_ see the logic behind that, but it’s incredibly difficult to imagine either of them getting along. The last time he saw Lantern, Jason came away from the encounter awed that someone could mouth off to Bruce and not get a batarang thrown at them. Not to say that you _can't,_ just that Lantern was…

To put it politely, it seemed to Jason that he had a knack for pissing people off.

Barry, seeing his conflict, reached over the table to ruffle his hair. “You’ll see what I mean eventually. For some reason they have the unfortunate luck of getting tangled in each other’s business.”

Jason rolls his eyes, groaning. “Don’t I know it,” he mutters. Dick never had these problems. Dick only ever had to worry about two alien invasions and Raven’s weird devil father. Jason bets that _he_ never had to listen to Hal and Bruce’s _bickering_ every other week.

No, of course not, because he got _Clark_ and _Barry_ instead. Lucky bastard. There are pictures in his photo-album to prove it.

His homework is (mostly) finished, and Barry is sitting at his kitchen table. There’s a perfectly wonderful TV in the living room. Mario Kart should still be in the console.

Jason grins. “Wanna play some games with me?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

~~~

10 losses and 1 win later, Jason accuses Barry of cheating so they move on to Mortal Kombat, where Jason thoroughly kicks his ass with every character they can use.

Barry stares at him, open-mouthed. “ _How_ are you so good at this?”

“Game nights,” Jason explains, proudly. He got good at this game specifically so he could kick Dick’s ass at it, and he’s willing to use all of those skills any chance he gets.

"Alright then," Barry says, "this means war."

He waves Mario Party in front of Jason's face, grinning wide.

Jason shouts for Alfred, and they sit down to play it together. Jason picks Daisy, because he likes yellow, Alfred chooses Luigi and Barry takes Peach.

About two minutes in, they start using character voices. 10 minutes, and they establish that Alfred has to be taken down. 40 minutes, and Barry and Jason end up trying to block each others view of the screen, going so far as to try grabbing the other’s controller.

This is probably why Alfred ends up winning. They blame it on hacking anyway.

That’s how Bruce finds them when he walks in; splayed out in front of the TV, Alfred sitting prim and proper on the sofa, Barry on his stomach on the floor, and Jason upside down on the armchair.

“Sup, Bats. Wanna join us?” Barry doesn't look away from the screen, but he nudges the fourth controller Bruce’s way with his foot. Jason hadn’t even seen him get it out.

“We’re trying to kill Alfred,” Jason says, gravely. “He’s _cheating_.”

“I assure you, Master Bruce, I am not. Master Jason is simply bad at losing.”

Bruce takes one look at the game they’re playing and scoffs. “Well of course you’re losing,” he tells them. “Alfred has never lost a game of Mario Party yet.”

“So you’ll join us?” Barry asks.

“Can I get changed first?”

“Yep!” Jason pipes up, moving so he’s lengthways across the arms of his chair.

Bruce comes back wearing simple nightclothes, raising a brow at the defeated groans coming from Barry on the floor. Jason is scowling at the ceiling and Alfred silently celebrates another victory.

“What we need,” he announces, digging a game out from the cupboard. “Is _real_ competition.”

“We’ve already played Mortal Kombat.”

“And Mario Kart.”

Bruce nods in sage understanding. “Yes, but those aren’t Smash Brothers.”

Barry yells out, “dibs on Pikachu!” at the same time that Jason blurts, “Kirby!” and Bruce realizes he probably won't get much sleep tonight.

Bruce chooses Ganon and Alfred takes Zelda.

"Stop spamming Kirby's down move that's not going to let you win!"

"Uh, yeah, it is, I've already knocked Alfred out the ring."

"Very clever of you, Master Jason."

And it is. Right up until he finds out that without Alfred on the field, Bruce is an absolute _monster_ with his combos. He pulls out combos that Jason didn't even know _existed_ until now. "How the fu-"

"Language!" Three voices chime at him.

"- fudge did you that!?"

Bruce smirks. "Pure skill."

“Try saying that when you’re playing against Supes next time,” Barry mutters, pulling off an impressive dodge and nearly knocking Jason off the platform.

“ _Nobody_ should be that good with Mario on their first try.”

“You didn’t tell me Clark beat you at Smash Bros!”

“I never _said_ he beat me, I just said he was _good_.”

“Don’t listen to him, Jason, because Clark absolutely thrashed him at this.”

“Tattletail,” Bruce whispers harshly.

“Yep,” Barry agrees. “And I believe that’s my win.”

Without looking away from the screen, Bruce puts 5 dollars into the swear jar. “Jason,” he says, “cover your ears.”

For the sheer creativity of his insults, Alfred makes him put in an extra two.

The game ends at 2am, on Bruce’s sixth victory, when Jason finally falls asleep, head pillowed in Bruce’s lap, his arms tightly hugging his controller.

“You really should be more strict with bedtimes,” Barry whispers, passing his controller to Alfred so everything can get packed away.

Bruce’s lips quirk upwards. “I thought that was your job?”

Barry scoffs. “Whatever.”

“What were you here for, anyway?”

“I,” Barry replies, confidently, “don’t actually remember.”

“....pfft.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Bruce passes over the swear jar, smirking. “Are you sure my riches aren’t because you keep filling this up?”

“I’m beginning to wonder.” Regardless, Barry digs into his pockets for extra change to put into it, singlehandedly being the reason that it’s nearly filled to the brim for the second time that night. Jason makes a noise in his sleep, curling up tighter in Bruce’s arms. “He’s a good kid,” Barry says, face turning soft.

“Yeah,” Bruce agrees quietly, stroking Jason’s hair. “He is.”

“...you’d protect them with your life, wouldn't you? Dick and Jason.”

“Yes. I’d sooner let Jordan boss me around for a week before I let them get hurt under my care.”

Chuckling, Barry says, “that’s why you’re such a _Dad_ ,” and Bruce can’t really deny it. Not anymore.

He stopped trying to after the third time it came up, anyway.

But no-one needs to know that.

***

It’s a wet, dreary night when Tim, curled up in a dark corner of the Wayne Manor kitchen, looks up to see Barry Allen climbing in through the window. He’s dripping water all over the counter and the floors, but his helmet is nowhere to be seen on his person.

In fact, the only reason Tim recognizes who he is, is because of the photos he’s seen in Dick’s wallet, back when the two of them went to Disneyland. What really tips him off, however, is the red leather jacket wrapped tightly around Barry’s shoulders, though the rest of him is dressed casually.

Despite all the merchandise, there's only one jacket with such a specific look of wear and tear on it. The cuffs even have old scorch marks on them.

He looks tired, Tim notes, taking in the grey circles under Barry’s eyes and the slump of his posture. Tim understands the feeling. Being a Robin is tiring; even more so with the tense atmosphere around Nightwing and Batman these days.

Not that Timothy blames them for it. They've been that way with each other since - since Jason died. Or so he's heard, anyway.

Barry makes an effort to give the kitchen a once over, frowning, before he squats down in front of Tim, offering the best smile that he can. Tim finds himself appreciating the effort.

“Timothy Drake, I’m assuming?” His voice, though rough from...lack of sleep, maybe, or disuse, is smooth and just the right volume that it doesn't hurt Timothy’s ears any further.

“Yeah,” Tim says, meeting his eyes dead-on. They’re a brilliant shade of blue. Just like in the photos. “You’re -” _Bartholomew Allen_ seems too invasive for first introductions - “the Flash right? They’ve mentioned you before.” He doesn’t elaborate on who. They both know.

“Barry is fine,” he murmurs back, eyes never leaving Tim’s until Tim decides to look away. “...Can I sit next to you? It’s cold tonight.”

Tim hadn’t noticed. He’s shivering, just a bit, so he nods, instinctively shuffling closer when he feels the heat coming from Barry’s body. The wet leather has been peeled away already, leaving a thick jumper underneath that Tim is more than happy to cuddle up to.

"How do you deal with it?" Tim whispers, "the expectations?"

"That's..." Barry scrunches his nose, considering. "A hard question to answer. We all deal with it differently, I think." He pulls Tim in a little tighter, hand rubbing his shoulder. "But if you're asking how I deal with it specifically? I don't."

That doesn't answer him at all. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean is," Barry replies, "I've dealt with high expectations for most of my life, a lot of them self-inflicted, and...I just stopped caring. Living up to society's expectations is impossible. They're always going to find something about you to judge, so I stopped caring." He chuckles. "It wasn't easy, but distancing myself from them helped in the long run."

"And Superman?"

"He has it the worst, easily. And...I think he tries too hard to meet them. He knows it's impossible for him to be save everyone but, well, doesn't stop him from beating himself up over it."

“I didn’t think it would be this hard.” And he hadn’t. Not truly. Nothing he’d ever heard on the streets could ever have prepared him for how hard this sort of life actually was. He didn’t regret any of it, no, but trying to live up to a preconceived notion was nauseating, sometimes.

“None of us did,” Barry admits. “But I think you’re doing just fine, all things considered.”

A sniff. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

They sit in silence for a while, after that, and Barry’s arm finds its way around Tim’s shoulders, blanketing him in warmth and the grounding reminder that he’s doing the _right thing_ even though it’s hard, sometimes, to see the silver linings.

“I think Dick hates Bruce,” Tim admits quietly, 40 minutes later, voice heavy and _tired._

“Yes. He does.” Barry’s voice is just as quiet, a raw honesty in his words that Tim wasn’t quite expecting to hear. He sounds...worn out. Drained, almost. Tim turns his head to look at Flash, taking in the distant, near cold look in his eyes.

“Do you hate him too? Because of what happened to Jason?”

Normally when people are silent around Timothy, he can tell what they’re thinking; can pick apart whether what he just said is a truth or a lie, accurately deducing the person’s current mindset. But Flash’s silence gives nothing away, careful and guarded, and the only other person whose ever had an effect like that is Bruce, so it’s a little jarring to know other heroes do it too.

Flash takes a moment to answer the question, and then his face contorts into an expression that Timothy has never seen before, like he’s going through a thousand different emotions in the span of a few seconds. “No,” he says softly. “I don't hate Bruce for what happened to Jason.”

But it feels like he’s omitting something important. A half-truth or a half-lie, Timothy can’t tell. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t press the issue either. Tells himself it’s because he knows when to back off, and not because he’s terrified to learn the whole terrible ordeal.

He's only 13. There's still plenty of things he's not ready to hear about.

Barry, Tim knows, took Jason’s death particularly hard. He heard from Dick that it lead to a huge fight between him and Bruce, and they haven't spoken since.

It makes him wonder why Barry is here now, if not for Bruce. He’s definitely not here for Dick, because Dick hasn’t lived in this mansion for years. He doesn’t visit either, unless he’s practically forced to. Alfred maybe…? Except, no, Alfred has stated before that he and Flash are acquaintances only.

So why?

Tim wants to ask - to dig deep and drag the truth out, the detective side of him rearing its head with an almost vicious curiosity.

“You don’t have your helmet,” Tim says instead. “Why?”

Barry shifts, clearing his throat. “Someone is...borrowing it for a while.”

“They must be important to you then.”

Barry’s arm tightens around his shoulders, briefly, his jaw clenching. “Yes. They are.”

Tim looks up at him, then, breathes in a shaky sigh, steeling himself. “Why are you here?” He adds, hastily, “in the manor, I mean. You don’t...talk to Bruce so…”

This time, Barry’s smile has humour to it, a lightness that suits him far better then the weariness from earlier. “I wanted to meet the kid who blackmailed Bruce Wayne.”

It’s not that big of a deal is it? Well, yes, it is, because he blackmailed a fricking _billionaire_ , but anyone with halfway decent skills could’ve figured out who he is and -

“I’m impressed, honestly. You’re almost as good as Bruce is.”

Timothy flushes scarlet, tongue tied in his mouth from the unexpected praise. He laughs, nervously, “I’m not Jason’s level yet.”

Barry gives him an odd look, eyes flickering over his face.

“...you’re never going to be Jason, Timothy.”

And that - that stings, just a bit. He’s been trying so _hard_ to fill that gap for everyone, to live up to Jason’s name, to help and - and to be told he won't ever get there? That all his efforts are wasted and _baseless_? It hurts. A lot.

A flurry of emotions choke up inside him, bursting forth in a ragged sob. He thinks of all the times Bruce and Dick have argued and fought each other, thinks of all the times Dick has lashed out at him and told him not to get in the way. Timothy curls up into a tighter ball, trying to hide his face. Barry draws him into a hug, soothing.

“You’re not Jason, kid. You’re not a _replacement_ for him.” What? “You’re Timothy Drake, the kid who dropped out of school to be Robin. You’re the one who blackmailed the Batman and sucker-punched Nightwing in the face.”

His sobbing gets louder, something inside him cracking and falling apart. It hurts, still, but...somehow, he’s relieved. Batman _needs_ a Robin - before Dick he had Ace and before Ace he technically had Alfred. He’s always had a partner, a Robin, even if Dick was the first to be given a real title. Living someone else’s life, however…

It took a toll on him. And he hadn’t even realized it.

“You’re Robin, but you’re also Timothy.” Barry pulls back to wipe away his tears, ignoring how wet and disgusting his clothes are now. “Make your own legacy, Tim. Just like Dick and Jason did. I’m not saying Dick is in the right to snap at you the way he does, and I’ve already talked to him about that -” Timothy gives a wet laugh, hiccuping - “but he’s. Frustrated. He thinks Bruce is replacing Jason and it’s causing conflict.”

He takes another breath, calming. “Bruce is still grieving. If he wasn’t...he’d have noticed all of this by now. I promise you, Bruce does not see you as a replacement for Jason. He saw a spark in you, Tim. He saw _you.”_

_Me...he saw me._

He laughs. He laughs and he laughs even as his tears keeps falling, relief and joy and the feeling of huge weights being lifted off his chest wracking through his body so quickly it leaves him breathless.

Barry keeps holding him throughout it all. He smells like leather - like rain and ozone, sweet and fresh. It’s an odd thing for Tim to notice now, of all times, but it all adds to the comfort he thinks.

He vaguely registers the sound of the front door opening, someone dragging their feet across the carpeted hallways.

“I really should get going,” Barry murmurs, pulling back again and grabbing his jacket. “I have some work I need to do.”

Timothy nods, sniffling. He’s smiling.

Barry hops onto the windowsill, lifting the glass and exposing himself to the cold once more. “How did you know?” Timothy asks. “That I needed...this.”

Barry considers the question. “You know, despite everything? He still cares about you. That’s just how he is. You’ll know what I mean once you talk to him.”

A clap of thunder, and Barry is gone, the window shut tightly behind him.

Someone clears their throat from the doorway. Dick stands there, hands shoved deep into his pockets, dripping with rain water, head bowed nervously. “Hey Tim. You, er, wanna...hang out?” Awkward, unsure, looking everywhere but Timothy’s face.

_He still cares about you._

“Sure,” Timothy says, grinning wide. “I’d like that.”

***

Damian cannot recall a time where he’s ever seen Jason look so harried before. He’s seen it on Tim and Dick and, on one memorable occasion when he got shot, on Baba, but never Jason. Yet that’s what he sees, undeniably, when he enters the living room at 23:48 on a Wednesday.

Timothy and Dick are nowhere to be seen at present, but Damian knows they’re in the manor somewhere; he can see Tim’s car outside and Dick’s mask is on the table, right next to the ashtray that Jason has almost filled to the brim. Alfred has already informed him of what happened, and though Damian has never met Uncle Barry before, he still understands that the man is family to his brothers.

That knowledge is enough to have Damian padding over to Jason, awkwardly laying a hand on his shoulder in what he hopes is comfort. He’s never had to comfort Jason before. He’s not sure how. “He’s alive,” Damian offers, stiffly. “Baba says he should be fine in the morning. Bruised, but fine.”

Having such a high healing rate is the only thing that saved him, but Damian keeps that to himself. Jason probably knows already, anyway.

Jason’s breath is shaky, head bowed between clenched hands, a cigarette tight between his fingers. “Yeah. Thanks, Dami.”

Damian chooses not to speak when Jason begins to cry. The relief around him is palpable. Damian continues to pat his shoulder, standing silently next to him, guarding.

He doesn't leave until Baba comes to relieve him, taking over as he scoops Jason into a hug, patiently putting the cigarette out in the ashtray. He gives a nod to Damian, and Damian quietly exits the room, seeking out the gardens for meditation.

He passes Dick in the hallway, leaning against a wall and texting on his phone. Of course. Someone has to explain the situation to Wallace and Harold. Nephew and boyfriend respectively, from what Damian has heard.

Timothy is nowhere that Damian goes, but his car is still inside the gates. Alfred is, most likely, keeping watch over Barry.

Damian wants to speak with him. Barry, that is, not Alfred. It seems right to do so, after he saved Jason’s life like that. And also because of his influence in the manor. Damian’s not the type to seek people out unless it’s necessary, but family is family, so he can make some exceptions. Even if theirs is a very _big_ family.

Crossing his legs in the grass, Damian lays his sword over his lap, closing his eyes. He meditates, he sleeps, he gets woken up when Dick carries him to his room, and he sleeps some more.

When he wakes, it is 8:37 and Timothy is smiling tiredly down at him, hand just leaving his shoulder where it was used to shake him.

Baba lets him sleep in on the days when nothing is happening. His mother is the same, though Talia shall never say as such to anyone. Very similar, his parents, though very different.

He’s surprised to see Barry at the kitchen table. He’d assumed that, even with his regenerative capabilities, he’d still be resting in a bed somewhere. By the look on Alfred’s face - raised brow, stern downturn of the mouth - he’s probably _meant_ to be.

Baba isn’t here. He’s an early riser, and tends to eat breakfast before the rest of them have a chance to see him in the mornings. Timothy and Dick have already started arguing over the pancakes, battling away each other’s forks, oblivious to the fact that Jason has stolen half of said pancakes already.

When they notice, they nearly tackle him to the floor, and it is only Alfred’s throat-clearing that stops them. Barry glances up from his phone - it’s vibrating constantly with a stream of messages - when Damian sits down at his place on the table. Subconsciously, everyone has assigned themself a seat in order of age, with Bruce always at the head of the table.

Dick and Jason sit on one side, with Timothy and himself on the other.

This one isn’t as big as the one in the dining hall, because it’s only used for breakfast and snacks. The dining hall is reserved for guests, parties and feasts.

Dinner is eaten wherever Alfred manages to find them, even on the roof or in the rafters. Damian still hasn’t figured out how he does it, let alone how none of them can sneak up on him. Not even Baba.

So used to everyone sitting in order of age, it throws him off for a minute to see Barry right next to Jason. It makes sense. From what he’s gathered, Jason always needs physical reminders that people are safe. When he got shot, Jason wouldn’t stop ruffling his hair for three days.

That’s simply part of his life, now.

"Do you even have a secret identity?" Damian asks, because he’s heard about how the others met him already and it seems like a safe-enough conversation starter.

Barry blinks up at him, smiling with good humour. “No, I don’t. It drives Bruce insane I think.”

Dick continues waving his fork threateningly at Tim and Jason, hunched over the pancakes. “It does,” he confirms. “He lectured me about it when I got home after you kidnapped me.”

“Oof,” Tim says, sympathetic.

“Oh no,” Jason mocks, “a lecture in exchange for a boyfriend. How tragic.”

“I was too young for boyfriends back then,” Dick huff's.

Damian smirks around his falafel. “But not young enough to stop your crush on Barbara?”

Dick flushes a bright red near instantly, his neck and ears aflame. He throws Damian a filthy look, and kicks Jason under the table to stop his snickering.

Barry’s grin, then, is truly malicious and garners everyone's attention. Dick gets even redder, trying to reach across Jason’s bulk to shut him up. He doesn’t succeed. “Oh we simply _can’t_ forget his crush on Shayera.”

Tim perks up, leaning forward with interest. “He had a crush on _Shayera_?”

“Yes.” Barry nods gravely. “It was very embarrassing. He used to stutter whenever she looked at him.”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Dick practically lunges out of his seat, and it’s here that Damian sees just how fast a speedster can move, for in the next blink, Barry is standing behind Timothy’s chair and Dick is hanging uselessly over the seat Barry had been previously occupying.

There’s tension in Jason’s shoulders, a slight pallor to his face. He watches Barry intently. Damian does the same, eyes tracking where he knows the wound had been. One of his legs is bent at the knee, clearly taking pressure off of that side, but otherwise he looks perfectly fine, save for the way his jaw muscle tenses.

Jason hauls Dick off the chair, giving Barry a _look._ Alfred left the room a little while ago, so Jason’s the one who says, a little testily, “sit down and rest, idiot.”

Barry, rolling his eyes, does as he’s told, but he makes a show of _skipping._

Jason scowls, opening his mouth to say something, but instead what comes out is, “Tim get your spoon off my eggs!” and the whole thing is forgotten about when Jason throws a dishrag at Timothy’s head, and gets it thrown right back at him, straight into his face.

The rest of breakfast is spent with the usual tomfoolery, though Barry keeps mostly out of it, focused as he is on his phone.

He chimes in now and then with a truly embarrassing story for Damian’s pleasure, like the time Timothy had to fight a criminal in his superman boxers, and the time Jason got his foot stuck in an urn and cried because he thought he’d have to cut the whole leg off to get free.

Damian enjoys his company.

The tension around his brothers doesn’t disappear, but it lessens the more that Barry talks and moves.

Timothy is the first to finish, as usual, and, though reluctant, has to leave to bail Conner out of jail. Again. He ruffles Damian’s hair, flips off Jason and Dick, and gives his Uncle a tight hug around the neck, dashing out the door as he argues with Conner down the phone about why he’s not allowed to just walk out by himself.

Dick lingers for as long as he can, dragging out his meal for an extra ten minutes. He has to get back to Blüdhaven, he says, because _someone_ needs to stop Wally and Kory from worrying themselves sick.

“Disgusting,” Damian mutters, poking his tongue out.

Dick swipes him upside the head. He gives Jason a wave, hugs his Uncle, and finally bids them all goodbye.

Jason is tapping his foot restlessly, never one to stay inside for too long, feeling far safer outside, in the open air. Barry notices. Of course he does. Observation is part of his job.

“Come one, let’s go for a walk.” He stretches out, gesturing for Jason to lead the way, as if he doesn’t know all the ins and outs of this manor already.

Jason, relieved, practically marches out the door, a tossed, “see ya later, squirt!”, over his shoulder. Rolling his eyes, Barry follows after him, and Damian decides that now is as good a time as any to get out what he _really_ wanted to.

“Thank you,” Damian says quietly. “For saving Jason.”

Barry pauses in the doorway, turning back to him with warmth in his eyes. “That’s what family does.” He winks. “I know you’d do the same.”

“Hrn. I suppose.”

Damian files Barry’s name under his mental cabinet for “family” and tacks on an “Uncle” at the beginning. He really needs more of those stories, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> couple things: Barry saying "Jaysus" is literally just "Jesus" but with an irish accent. This is because I HC that his mom, Nora, was born and raised in Ireland but moved to America later in life. Barry still has a twinge of an irish accent and it's mostly notable when he says "jaysus".
> 
> Damian calls Bruce "Baba" instead of "Father" because I wanted to show his middle-eastern heritage. Also he was raised by Talia for ten years its more likely he says "Baba". 
> 
> Barry saving Jason's life is something that happened in my fic "Bleeding Hearts" so you can check that out on my profile. It was previously called "Blood On My Name" but I changed it recently cuz Bleeding Hearts sounded better lol
> 
> (Kudos if you can guess who was borrowing his helmet lmao)


End file.
